


Stolen moments

by Sweetlit



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Character Study, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, First Kiss, Gay, Heroes: Volume 4, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Scared!Peter, Season/Series 04, Slash, Unrequited Crush, banters, moodyness, obsessive!Sylar, wall!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16040993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetlit/pseuds/Sweetlit
Summary: Peter had sighed, looking at the deserted palaces that surrounded the balcony on which he was sitting: when he'd gotten into Sylar's head, he hadn't thought about the consequences.





	Stolen moments

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: this is a loose translation of my italian fic "Momenti rubati", please forgive my English since it's not my first language!

Peter had sighed, looking at the deserted palaces that surrounded the balcony on which he was sitting: when he dodged Matt and got into Sylar's head, he didn't think about the consequences.  
He believed that once entered and found Sylar he could safely leave, having Matt Parkman's ability, but when he discovered that the nightmare created by the former policeman had an autonomous mind, he had been disarmed.  
At first he had not spotted the differences, but slowly, as Sylar started pointing them out, he had also noticed them: things, objects, places not belonging to the mind of the serial killer had begun to appear, one after the other, one day after the other, hidden, or in plain sight, in front of them. A clear sign that the dream was able to perceive his presence and adapt its surroundings, change because it could.  
So, despite the anomalous loneliness, it was almost like feeling at home.  
Of course, an unreal house in a post-apocalyptic future, but always a house.  
Hadn't it been for Sylar, he would have almost appreciated that strange place, but the idea of having to share that world that could give them everything with that Devil made him moody, paranoid and full of anger.  
He could not believe he was locked up in Nirvana with the murderer of his brother... it couldn't be true, except that it was.  
And Sylar was naturally there, always there, in front of his face, every single moment of every single day, no matter how much he tried to avoid him.  
He hated it.  
Every now and then he felt hatred burn deep in his chest, especially when Sylar looked at him with his beaten puppy gaze, but then he'd return home after hammering that damned wall all day and always found a plate of hot food ready for him, and that hot and pitiless grip on his heart melted, at least in part.  
And then were the times when Sylar spoke about Nathan, when he spoke just LIKE Nathan, and he would just loose his self-control.  
"I said stop it!" he'd shout. "You're not HIM! You'll never be..."  
Sylar would look back at him, inscrutable.  
"I know." he'd answer bitterly, before pushing him away.  
Peter would then get back to the wall, to beat on it with his hammer, until the inside of his palms cracked, because hadn't he done so, he'd probably would've ended up smashing it right on Sylar's head.  
He wasn't sure they could actually die in the nightmare, after all, they had no powers there. Perhaps, had he killed him, that large, unacceptable weight on his chest would have finally been lifted.  
Or not.  
Perhaps it would only get worse, he did not know. He did not want to know.  
So, in total uncertainty, the only thing that kept his mind sane was trying to break through that fucking wall, not so much for the idea of being able to do it, because he had understood by then that with only brute force it would never fall.  
It was for the sound of metal clashing against stone, the feeling of power and pain that ran through his fingers: they kept his mind intact, forced him not to think, nor to reflect, which was a good thing.  
A very good thing.  
\----------------------------------------  
Sylar had looked at him under his lashes from across his plate.  
Peter didn't know why, but that evening he'd decided to dine with him.  
Usually, when he returned, sweated and devastated by his day spent working on the wall, he found his plate ready on the table and Sylar locked up in his room pretending to read, or trafficking with his watches, or anything else that damned freak enjoying doing at night.  
However, when he'd returned that evening, less tired and sweaty than usual, having spent much of the day sitting to just stare at the wall, he' had found Sylar sitting at the kitchen table, a book open in his left hand, two large pairs of glasses that completely transformed his face.  
He seemed almost like a normal person.  
"I thought you had already finished". Peter greeted him, distractedly removing his jacket and sitting in front of him.  
He had looked at the plate and had to cling to the table in order not to hurt him: Sylar had prepared him fried spaghetti, Nathan's favourite dish.  
"No, I was late." The murderer had replied, slowly closing the book he was reading (AGAIN "The pillars of the earth", he coudn't believe it) and placing it on the tablecloth next to him.  
Peter had shaken his head, moving the dish in front of him with a disgusted expression.  
"You know what, I'm not hungry tonight." He had sneered, attempting to get up.  
Sylar had cast a glance at him, before murmuring: "It wasn't really his favourite dish, you know."  
Peter had almost broken the glass from which he had just took a sip of wine.  
"Excuse me?" he had asked in half a voice, struggling to keep a calm tone.  
"He didn't like spaghetti, he just ate them because YOU did, to make you happy. He preferred sushi." Sylar explained, his dark eyes fixed on the napkin under his hands.  
Okay, this was too much.  
Peter had heard the glass shatter under his fingers in a painful explosion of shards.  
"YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT ABOUT NATHAN!" He had screamed at him, planting his wounded fingers in his face, splashing blood across the table and the kitchen floor.  
Sylar had only remained silent for a second, but that time he hadn't apologized, hadn't kept quiet, nor taken on his usual unhappy look.  
He had jumped up and shouted back with the same, perhaps even stronger, force.  
"THE HELL I DON'T! He was in my head, he was ME!" He had collected the book and thrown it across the room, near Peter's left cheek, missing it by a mere inch. "Shit, look at you!" he had cursed, passing a nervous hand through his hair.  
Only then did Peter notice the pieces of glass that pierced his palm and the blood that was pouring down his forearm.  
"Whatever, it's not real, anyway" he had shrugged, still jumping for the pain when he'd attempted to close it.  
"Yeah, right, how can you be sure? Come here..." the killer had responded angrily, grabbing a cloth from the sink and turning to him.  
"No." Peter had denied, pulling himself back.  
"Don't be an idiot, you're a nurse, you should know these kind of wounds aren't a joke. I just want to help you..." he had grasped his wrist without further explanations, looking critically at the situation. "Fuck, they're quite stuck in..."  
"Yes I know, thank you very much-OUCH!" Peter had shouted as Sylar tried to wipe the wound off with the napkin to see better. "Not like this, let it go! You got any pliers between your intruments?" He had touched his free hand to his forehead, giving up and sitting back.  
"Yes, I'll go get them." Sylar had walked by his chair, leaving behind him a faint scent of honey and cinnamon.  
Peter knew he liked chai tea, he'd seen him drank gallons of it since he'd been locked there. He must have experimented with a new flavour that afternoon, while he was (not) keeping himself busy with the wall.  
He had looked at the cuts distractedly, noting that, despite the appearance, the injury was less severe than expected.  
"Here." Sylar had placed the pliers under his nose, coming back into the kitchen.  
"Thank you." Peter had responded so lowly that Sylar hadn't almost heard him.  
He should have probably sterilized the tool, but they were in a fucking dream after all, with none around but the two of them, so the chances of getting an infection were probably near zero.  
They had remained silent for a while, with Peter removing the fragments one by one from the palm and Sylar sitting next to him, watching him.  
"You haven't worked much, today." Sylar had finally said, his mouth hidden behind one of the hands on which he was leaning.  
Peter had stilled for a moment with the tool in mid-air.  
"No, I...wasn't in the right mood." He'd evasively responded after a while, resuming his work.  
"Strange. Nothing can usually distract you from it." The killer had pointed out, his dark eyes fixed on him.  
Peter had swallowed a huge amount of saliva, feeling suddenly under close inspection.  
"I told you, I didn't feel like working much..."  
"You know it's useless: you didn't touch it, and you've had the same success as in recent days. It's no use to beat on it, yet you keep going.... you're definitely not stupid Peter, so, why?" He had cornered him.  
Peter had let out a long sigh, stopping again in his workings. What was he supposed to do?  
"It's... the only thing that keeps me sane." He had finally admitted, surprising himself with his sincerity.  
Sylar had nodded, tearing his overly penetrating gaze away from him, pondering on what he had just said.  
"I understand." He had finally murmured. "It mustn't be easy for you to be locked in here... with me."  
"Yeah" the empath had snickered, snorting vaguely. He had set the pliers aside, starting to clean carefully around the cuts with the cloth. "Sometimes I wonder how can you sit here the whole day. I'd snap in a second."  
Sylar had taken off his glasses, finally returning to his true self, rubbing his eyes tiredly with his fingers.  
"I don't know. Maybe because it's what I deserved, maybe because... I don't want to be saved." He had admitted in turn, making Peter look in his direction.  
The nurse had almost said something, but had held back, tightening instead the rag like a bandage around his wrist.  
These were the moments that made him want to go back and hit on the wall with his hammer. Moments in which he saw the humanity of a murderer, something he could not accept at all.  
"...Or maybe it's because I don't want to leave this place, after all." Sylar had concluded under his breath.  
Peter could not help but stare at him.  
"What?" he had asked, thinking that he had lost his mind completely.  
"Crazy, right?" The killer had mocked himself, without taking his black irises off the nurse.  
"Pretty much." Peter had agreed,checking the string on his wrist and trying a mouthful of his abandoned spaghetti: shit, they were really good... "But it kinda suits you." He had half-joked, flashing him his crooked smile.  
Sylar had chuckled to himself, pulling the other dish towards him and starting to eat aswell.  
They had munched for a while without speaking, but without feeling any embarrassment as both remained silent.  
It was the first time this had happened in their time together.  
Once finished, they had cleaned up, still in comfortable silence, leaving the dishes in the basin, sure to find them clean the next day.  
"Thank you." Peter had finally murmured. "For cooking me spaghetti... they were delicious." He had elaborated, feeling strangely in debt to the killer.  
Sylar had made his usual nerdy sneer. "You're welcome." He had replied, making him feel quite silly and embarrassed.  
"Ok, I think I'll go to sleep now." He had moved to retreat, but Sylar had almost brutally grabbed him by his wrist, blocking him against the furniture.  
"Sylar?" He had exhaled, alarmed. "What.. what are you doing.?" But the killer had denied him any way out, putting himself in front of him in all his enormous stature. Peter trembled, fearing that the other would be seriously about to open his head in two.  
"I don't know..." the former watchmaker had whispered, bending over on him and smelling his hair.  
The faint scent of honey and cinnamon hit Peter back, strongly this time, obscuring his senses.  
"Sylar...?" He had repeated, pulling himself back as far as possible to look at him in the eye.  
Sylar had grabbed him by the chin, looking back in his hazel brown irises, then had lowered himself on his face and kissed him with an open mouth.  
Peter stood completely still, motionless, while Sylar rubbed his lips against his own, before detaching himself with a light smack.  
The killer had batted his long lashes several times, as if waking up from a state of trance,  
Peter had stared at him between shock and disbelief, touching his mouth with his bandaged hand, violently blushing.  
He was still in that position when Sylar had let him go, turning around at the door to whisper him a low: "Goodnight, Peter."


End file.
